


Paint It Red

by lazlong



Category: Back to the Future (Movies)
Genre: Escapism, F/M, M/M, Slash, having fun, vices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 21:08:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5306840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazlong/pseuds/lazlong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm goin' to Jackson, I'm gonna mess around..<br/>..there is another comfort, behind locked doors, windows and guarded by vicious pair of dogs..</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paint It Red

**Author's Note:**

> Ten Minute Writing Challenge

_Sometimes, when Doc suffers an acute case of consciousness, he threatens him with promise to make a ring for him to wear (very real threat, just couple of hours of work, and he sooo can do it), or going two hundred in the future (impossible at moment, but quite feasible soon enough, and no, he will not think about alternatives. Just plain  - NO.), and make an honest man out of him._

_But in the end of the day it doesn't matter, the teasing and ridiculing, at the end of day it is two of them and that is enough. At least now._

The local vices are few in number, therefore they are much revered.

Smoking is the first one he takes up to. The tobacco is disgusting, but it numbs almost perpetual feeling of hunger and gives something to do for his restless hands. Doc swears, and casts disapproving glances, but he is fine one to talk: just take a look at him, his Highness. Smoking as a train, that one. And coughing. He gets all tense and wants to hide below non-existent pillow, when Doc coughs just _like_ that. Because there has been enough health leaflets for him to know what it might mean.

Drinking is the next one. Not too much, not too often, but it helps to take the edge off the reality, of Doc's cough, of the infinite possibilities of future, and what could/will/have had/would happen to them - one too old, another too young for West - if they do not manage to make it out, back to civilization, within couple of years. There is no doubt regarding life expectancy in the Wild West for one teenager, not eighteen yet, underfed, without relatives, without money, or useful skills - and one skillful senior, who probably will live another thirty in 1985, but who will be lucky to survive next Anno Domini relatively unscathed.

Then there is another comfort, behind locked doors, windows and guarded by vicious pair of dogs; as well as their reputation as too trigger-happy bunch of weird foreigners who are known to be too happy to shoot first and ask later; may be ask, if there will be anybody left alive enough to answer. Comfort not named. Not discussed. Not analyzed.  Small, at the beginning, but it takes over the first two at alarming rate.

They are two, they are alone, all other vices are either dangerous or expensive or both, and this one is theirs. Private, disturbing, challenging, calming, plain wrong yet exciting; and daily. Thrill of the first touch,  hesitation each time whether the advances will be accepted, whether this _particular_ advance will be welcome, then the avalanche of feelings and sensations, and absolute loss of any semblance of the control; and the bliss then; blacking out and slow, languid feeling of immortality and peace. As a matter of fact this is almost the sole best thing of their exile, the only thing worth considering staying here. Minus the heart-medicine and probability of survival, diminishing / expanding day by day, depending on your point of view.


End file.
